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The Leaves Say Goodbye

The leaves say goodbye as they take one last ride on the breeze. One final spin as they dance with the gold-latticed sun. Brittle veined butterflies, they desert the trees without complaint. Without regret. Only secret rustlings that promise soon, the cold of winter will prevail.

I stand beneath the mother trees and pick tiny geodes from the hard clay soil and wonder how they were formed as I give them sanctuary in my deep, woolen pocket. I wonder too, if I will make it through yet another five months of cold, dry air. Harsh air that sucks the moisture from my eyes and throat - and the long, dark nights that stir up melancholy, and the inevitable human frailties.

It's sad when things; leaves, trees - people - grow old. Grow up; and go away to live. Or die.

I lean on an oak five times older than my mere sixty years, and ask her through my heart - my soul - ‘How do I fight these fickle, cold winds? Tell me, old friend, how do I survive this world?' ... and she whispers softly back to me, ‘We are not supposed to'.

Story by:

S.E. Miller

paintedponies99@gmail.com

22 October 2014